


Where the lovelight gleams

by dancinguniverse



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 18:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5551127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinguniverse/pseuds/dancinguniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dick misses the last train home on Christmas Eve. Nix drives him to Lancaster instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the lovelight gleams

**Author's Note:**

> A belated Christmas story.

Dick finishes stomping snow from his shoes with more force than necessary and heels them off, elbowing the door shut behind him. It slams hard enough to rattle the hinges, but the sound goes very little toward satisfying Dick's irritation. He maneuvers his bag into the hall with a thump and is still hanging up his coat, brushing more snow out of his hair, when Nix’s voice floats down the hallway, bouncing off the paneled wood floors and walls. 

“Dick? What are you doing back here?” He appears in the doorway to their living room a minute later, drink in hand, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

“I missed the train,” Dick says shortly. He’s not mad at Nix, not really. But Nixon Nitration isn’t the most well organized place at the upper levels, and Dick hadn’t felt right leaving for the holiday until everything was taken care of. Nix had gone to work long enough to eat the cookies the secretaries had brought in and distract half the people Dick needed to talk to, and then left shortly after lunch. One task had piled onto another and Dick, even after calling a cab, had arrived at the station in time to watch the train for Lancaster rattling away into the distance. 

So it’s not precisely Nix’s fault, but it’s Christmas Eve, Dick is not on his way home, and he is not especially merry about any of it. 

“Is there a late train? I’ll drive you back to the station.” 

“No,” Dick says. “There’s not.” He passes Nix and heads into the kitchen and straight to the refrigerator, pouring some milk into a pan. It’s freezing out, and he wants something to warm him up. Nix follows him, lounging in the doorway and watching him. "If you wanted to help, I could have used it a few hours ago," he points out. 

“I told you to get out of there when I left,” Nix tries, and Dick bangs the pot a little on the stove. 

“I had work to finish.” He doesn't bother not stressing the first syllable a little. He glances over, taking in Nix’s rolled up sleeves, his slippered feet, and heads off any other comments that are just likely to irritate him further. “You’re not heading out?”

Nix shrugs, glancing away. “It’s snowing.” 

“Your father’s having quite the shindig, from what I hear.” 

Nix only shrugs again, taking a swallow of his drink, and Dick turns back to the stove. 

“I’m sorry,” Nix says finally, and when Dick looks back, he’s seated himself at the table, hands laced around his glass. “I know you wanted to be home.” 

Dick stirs the milk. “Well. At least we made it back. Plenty of guys didn’t.” 

Nix stares at his drink, and just about the time Dick pours his milk into a mug, Nix throws back his whiskey and stands. “Come on. I’ll drive you.” 

“I just said, it was the last train,” Dick tells him, irritation surging again. He pushes past Nix into the living room, where at least Nix has a fire going, and steals the closer chair, shoving his feet up next to the grate. 

“Okay, finish your drink,” Nix allows, waving his hand and following him to perch on the arm of Dick’s seat rather than dragging over the second chair. “But I mean I’ll drive you to Lancaster.” 

“Stop kidding around.” 

“Who’s kidding? I’m not doing anything; you need to get to Pennsylvania. What’s so complicated?” 

Dick raises his eyebrows. “You’re serious?” Nix raises his back and doesn’t bother answering. “No,” Dick disagrees. “You’re supposed to be with your family. I can’t let you do that.” 

Nix laughs, the sour sound he uses too often for Dick’s liking. “If you think my father has a spare minute for me at that party, you haven’t been paying attention.” 

Dick sips his milk, watching the fire dance and crackle, and thinks about calling his mother, telling her that after four years away, after dozens of battles and letters lost in the post and Christmases at war, that he won’t be making it home this year either. He shakes his head.

Nix is still sitting on the arm of the chair, watching Dick watch the fire. Dick looks up. “You don’t mind the snow?”

Nix makes a face at him, as if he’s disappointed Dick could possibly think he would let something like snow slow him down. Dick claps Nix across the back, shoving him off the arm of the chair and leveraging himself up at the same time. “My bag’s already in the hall. Let me call my parents and let them know.”

Nix moves to bank the fire, and Dick grabs him by the arm, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “And thanks.”

Ten minutes later, Dick slides easily into the passenger seat. He is comfortable there, well accustomed to the way Nix reaches for the radio in the same motion as he puts the car in gear. Dick prefers driving in silence, but Nix always chooses the blare of music, even if he has to yell his conversation over it. 

It’s all Christmas carols, of course, and Dick relaxes as Nix spins the car away from the curb, conceding only a very slight amount of speed to the wet snow falling from dark skies. It’s past dinnertime already, and while warm yellow light pours from the windows of the houses that line the streets, the cars are few in town. Nix pulls onto the highway, pointing the car west. 

“There’s your song,” Nix comments as Bing Crosby’s voice fills the car. Dick smiles faintly, the smile spreading when Nix follows it up by crooning softly, “ _Please have snow and mistletoe_ …” His voice is rough but on key, which is no surprise. Dick is used to Nix singing under his breath to the radio while he cooks, while he drives, while he simply putters around the house. 

“Snow looks like a sure thing,” Dick comments, watching it fly out of the way as the car speeds through the night. 

“And mistletoe?” Nix quips. 

Dick eyes him sideways. “Less likely.” Nix laughs and rests a hand on Dick’s knee. 

The snow gets heavier, and Nix’s foot grows a little lighter to compensate, his free hand returning to the wheel before long. They pass a car spun out on the side of the road and pull over, but its occupant is long gone, the car cold and sealed up. They get back in and pull back onto the road, nearly spinning out themselves in the process, and Nix gives a low whistle. 

“You can’t go back home in this,” Dick says.

Nix shrugs. “I’ll get a hotel. Drive back tomorrow.”  

Dick snorts, imagining his parents' reactions. “You aren’t getting a hotel on Christmas Eve. You can have my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“How nosy are your parents?” Nix asks with a slight leer, and Dick shakes his head.

“Very,” he says firmly. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” He watches Nix drive for a few minutes longer, his face shadowed in the darkness, a faint frown of concentration his only expression. “You really don’t care if you’re home for Christmas?” 

Nix cuts his eyes over, though he doesn’t take them off the road for long. “Dick, you’ve been to Sunday dinner. You know how they are. They’re going to harangue me about Kathy, and we’ll argue about everything under the sun, and then they’ll go back to their friends and ignore me. Do you realize I joined the fucking army to get out of there?”

“Of course I do,” Dick says quietly. “And I know he’s difficult, but he's your father. I can’t believe he doesn’t care for you, even if he's not good at showing it.” 

Nix’s hands are both on the wheel now, clenched a little tighter than necessary, even with the weather. “Never had any problems believing it about Kathy.” 

Dick puts his shoulders back against the seat, tensing a little. They’d been fooling around in foxholes and in vacant houses across Europe well before the word divorce had ever been mentioned. “I’m not proud of that.” 

Nix sighs. “Dick, forget about it. I’m just saying.” He stops, not actually saying anything at all for a while. He turns up the radio again, letting brass and string sections wash across the car, and then mutters under the music. “I know the good things in my life. I’m right where I want to be.”

They’ve crossed into Pennsylvania before Dick speaks again. “Still haven’t been to Chicago,” he observes. It’s an olive branch, and Nix smiles without looking away from the road.

“Well. Gotta fix that. Summer, though. You gotta see the lake in the summer. It’s miserable now, cold’ll take your breath away.” He rambles absently as he drives, and Dick fills in the gaps sometimes when he fades to silence, focusing on the slippery roads.

They pull up in front of the house just before eleven, and both of them breathe out, relaxing. The side roads were even worse than the highways. The lights are still on in the house, pouring out around the curtains, and Dick is sure his parents will be on the front porch within the minute. But he pauses before he opens the car door.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says quietly.

“Beats the hell outta last year,” Nix says, but his grin is soft, all the hard edges worn away.

“I mean it. I would have missed you.” Dick’s front door opens just as he’d expected, his mother and father edging out onto the snow-covered porch in their slippered feet. It curtails anything further, but Nix grabs his hand low on the seat, squeezing it briefly.

“Merry Christmas, Dick.”

"Merry Christmas."

 


End file.
